Michael Bunker - WICK

Robert sighed deeply and Cole smiled.

“That, dear man, is from Shakespeare. Othello, I think,” Cole said.

“I wonder if Shakespeare ever had to shovel garbage,” Robert sneered, light-heartedly.

Cole thought of a few of the minor plays. “I suppose he did on occasion.”

Cole did not notice that Mikail Brekhunov, now known as Mike, had approached and was standing behind him.

“Bravo, Cole. I see you’re keeping the settlers entertained,” Mike said. His eyes did not betray his intent, and his delivery was deadpan.

“Settlers?” Cole spat the word out, sarcastically. “I see you’re piping that tune, too.”

“I am,” Mike replied, and something in his voice suggested that in fact he was doing more than merely piping the tune—that he was also writing the music. “I’m not going to argue with you about it. Words are powerful tools. You of all people should know that. You, too, should call us ‘settlers,’ if you’re smart enough to know how perilous your position is here.” Mike waived his hand dismissively at the muck covered floor as if to suggest that there was a level even lower than that.

Cole either did not see the implied threat, or did not care, and he pressed his case. “Yes, words are important, Mike, but in the end, isn’t it something more that is needed? Something more.” He emphasized the words, indicating that what he was saying was actually the something more of which he spoke. “Like the more powerful cousin of words… action? Or… well…”

He was about to say “truth” but he didn’t get the chance. Mike snapped at him and showed some wit of his own.

“What does Orwell have to do with it?”

Mike patted the gun at his side as he said it, and Cole flinched. “I tire of your quibbles, Cole. It’s ten o’clock, and your crew was supposed to be done with this load twenty minutes ago. We get behind, and we get buried in garbage. You do understand, right?”

Cole smiled, as if to offer a silent bow.

Mike did not smile or laugh. He stepped closer to Cole and stared into the younger man’s eyes.

“‘All the world’s a stage…,’ blah, blah, blah. Get it done, Cole.”

Mike spit his angry, rancid breath into Cole’s face from a distance of inches. Cole noticed that detail because it was the only one that really made him uncomfortable. He could deal with the threats, but that breath…

“You’re wearing down my good will and patience, my friend,” Mike leaned into the last word.

Cole clicked his boots. There was a slight mockery in the motion. “We will re-double our efforts, Comrade Mike.” He said the whole sentence with a smile. He then removed a glove, pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a small corner of cloth he’d found in the trash. He noticed the smell of urine. Really, it is mind-boggling, the amount of waste this place produces, he thought, his mind already turning back to his work.

Mike stood and watched him and glared at him. “One day. One day soon, Cole—,” he let the threat dangle before his prey, “—your mouth will get you into trouble that your charm and wit cannot get you out of.”

“Yes, Mike. You are undoubtedly correct. And, when such a day comes, I hope to have enough grace to accept it.” He spat on the ground and then looked back up at Mike. A small bit of spittle still clung to the corner of his mouth.

Mike wheeled on his heels and walked back towards the administrative tents. His bulldog walk was emphasized by the way he worked his jaw as if rehearsing some argument. The effect made him look like he’d sunk his teeth into something, and his shoulders hunkered over slightly as he tracked his way back down the small slope through the snow.

When he was gone, Cole looked over at Robert and shrugged.

“He thinks I’m charming and witty,” Cole said, laughing. He put out his hand again, and this time he spoke with a British accent.

Peter, Elsie, and Ace were now safely behind the lines of the FMA. A hard half-day’s walk brought them to an FMA encampment only ten miles from Lancaster County.

While “safely” had most certainly become a relative word, they knew that they now could feel more comfortable bunching up in a group, talking, and going through their gear. They’d traded their entire stash of extra guns and ammo—including the AK-47—for twenty pounds of dried sausage and a bag of key limes. In the old world, such a trade would have been ludicrous. In this world, Peter almost felt like he’d taken advantage of the FMA officer with whom he’d bargained. The sausage would come in handy as a means of getting protein and quick calories while on the run. The limes would help keep them from getting scurvy, or any of a dozen other diseases and afflictions that are caused or exacerbated by a lack of Vitamin C. Peter had tried to get a roll of baling wire thrown in with the bargain, but the officer had just laughed at him. Peter would have to deliver him a battle tank, the man said, in working order and loaded with fuel in order to get a roll of baling wire. Some things couldn’t be had at any price.

Matches, duct tape, aluminum foil, aspirin, and chocolate—these were gotten in dreams, not often in reality.

“Getting that dried sausage was a Godsend, Peter,” Elsie said.

Ace just nodded his head in agreement, as he sucked the juice out of a key lime.

“We did well to get so much for those guns. With all the deaths and sickness and so many battles, guns and ammo are going to be easy to get for a while. Someday, they’ll be precious again, but right now, they’re out there lying around for any scavenger willing to go spend a day looking for them. Glad we found a man who didn’t over-value his meat supplies.”

“What news did you hear from them, Peter?” Elsie asked.

“They said another ten miles and we’d be rolling into Amish country. There are heavy-duty checkpoints on every point of ingress into the area, even the back roads. Some militia—a well-funded and highly able group—has taken it upon themselves to protect the Amish. Probably it’s a brilliant idea, and that’s something that Uncle Volkhov hinted at before the crash. He thought that somebody with resources might realize that it was in everyone’s best interests to keep the Amish alive and working. Neither the FMA nor the MNG are messing with these militia guys.”

“That sounds frightening, Peter,” Elsie said. “What will we do?”

“The officer I traded with said that these militia guys are hard core, but reasonable. He said they’re letting people in who belong there, who know someone in the area, or who have verifiable business with the Amish.”

“You think they’ll let us in?”

“I have no idea,” Peter said, shaking his head. “He says that from here on in—since they’ve pushed the MNG to the north—we should be able to travel on the main road and not have to go cross country.”

“Do you think that’s so? Is that a good idea?”

“I trust him. He says it’s dangerous to go cross country into Amish country. The militiamen guarding the area are more nervous about people trying to sneak in than they are about folks who just come up to a checkpoint and make their case.”